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“Ow!” I quickly set the tray down on the table by the chaise, wiping the hot tea off my finger. “I didn’t ask for food or tea.”
“And I didn’t ask to serve you at this hour, either.”
I sniff it. Chamomile.
“Does this have valerian root in it?”
“Yes.” They squint. “I was informed you needed help sleeping.”
“By the pixies?” My brow scrunches and I look past them into the hallway, wondering if the little creatures are indeed eavesdropping despite what Rainer said.
I have yet to spot one. I’m skeptical of their existence.
Das Celyn snorts. “No.”
“Then who—”
“Doesn’t matter.” They point to the tray, where a couple of pastries sit. “Saw you eyeing those earlier. Had some extras.”
“Tha—” I curse myself for almost using my manners again. It’s weird not using pleasantries. It’s rude, but I guess it’s something I have to get used to.
Instead of thanking Das Celyn, I say, “I can make my own meals, you know.”
“I’m sure ya can.” They begin fluffing my pillows.
“I can make my own bed, too.”
“Good for you.”
“You don’t have to care for me.”
They grunt. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want.”
“So you admit it, you want to take care of me?” I ask with a teasing smirk.
“No.” They pause, popping a hip and placing a hand on it. “What I want is to do my job, without interruptions.”
I grab a pastry, biting into it to keep from talking. It’s clear Das Celyn wants little to do with me, even when I try to lighten the mood. It’s a bad habit I’ve built over the years—trying to appease others or make them feel better, even when I’m wrecked on the inside. Or, in the lord’s case, even when they don’t deserve it.
After I finish my muffin, I can’t help but break the awkward silence.
“Does it ever get cold here?” I ask, gesturing toward the impeccably clean chimney. It looks like it’s never seen a flame.
“No.”
“Does the sun ever come out?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” They grunt, and a growling noise comes from their stomach and I can’t help but relax slightly at the normalcy of it.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “Would you like to sit?”
“No.”
Their stomach rumbles again.
I take in how rail-thin they are, and the pieces begin clicking into place. Das Celyn might be bad-tempered, but if they’re not eating, it’s no wonder why they’re in a less than pleasant mood.
It reminds me of how Lady Nilda used to withhold my meals when she caught her husband’s eyes roaming my body. She thought she could starve me away—as if she could keep me so thin I’d eventually become invisible.
